Seduction in Salem
by HotSteamyBagsOfBroccoli
Summary: When a war-addled veteran makes a personal connection with a tough Sicilian mafia member, what will be made of it? Just a word of warning, this contains gratuitous amounts of boning and other sexcapades, so if you're under the age of 18, ain't wanna see that, or you're under the age of 18 and ain't wanna see that, stay away.


I'm so, so sorry for this. I didn't even intend for this to end up like this. A friend of mine jokingly asked me to make a town of Salem fan fiction that had the mafia getting down and dirty with the veteran, so I decided to get started at around 1 AM and by the time I looked at the clock again it was 5 AM and I was finished. Was it worth it? Nope. Do I like it? Nope. Yup, I'm so shit at writing that I took four hours to write a story about... this. So, without any further ado, please enjoy the trash.

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 **In a place like Salem, you can never be too safe.** This is the mindset the veteran fell into when the killing started. The horrible, horrible killings that spread through the town like a cancer, wiping away the kindly doctor, the exotic medium, and the trusted sheriff, who kept the town afloat through hard times, a shining beacon of hope for the scared town and one of the only things standing between the Mafia and any other forces of evil that wanted to wipe the town off the face of the Earth. The sheriff was found lying in his bed, gutted like a pig hung up for slaughter in the rusty back room of a butcher's store. He had a cut from one side of his gut to the other, causing his blood to pool underneath him and soak deep crimson into the sheets and drip down to the floor and his bed sheet had been grabbed and pulled over his face and into his mouth to stop him from screaming. The hardwood floor of his bedroom was littered with cigarette butts and scuff marks, showing some kind of struggle, one that was obvious that the sheriff didn't win. But the most interesting part of the room was a note that was neatly placed on the nightstand right next to his bed, rolled up and closed with a ribbon. It was pristine, made of clear, beautiful paper, but what was written on it didn't seem fit for something so beautiful. It was just eleven words: "If you oppose us, you die. Stay away from the Mafia".

The sheriff's body was found in the morning by the concerned escort, a "friend" of his who wanted to have a small "check up" with him. The town was wracked into a fit of paranoia again and they met around the pillory in the town square for another discussion. As usual, the discussion was little more than a screaming match of scared townies who screamed for the death of anybody who had committed something as small as looking at somebody else the wrong way. There were unnecessary cries of execution for the escort (who broke down crying), even more cries of execution for the spy (who had apparently visited the sheriff earlier during the night according to the lookout, which he denies), but they were silenced by the mayor, who tried to calm everybody down and bring them down to a more respectable level of panic and blind anger. When the voting time came, nobody was brought to the guillotine… for now. As everybody walked the short, paved path to their own houses, nobody was laughing and talking like usual. The sheriff wasn't held on his arm by the escort, walking down as if they were a happy couple, the jailor wasn't enjoying the usual solidarity of his office in the prison due to all the suspects pouring in, the medium wasn't recounting the loving words of the deceased to their friends and family but instead receiving the haunting recounts of those who were snuffed out like a candle, experiencing the worst pain they could imagine, and especially, not a single person was smiling. To its inhabitants, Salem seemed like it couldn't get any worse.

To the veteran, life in general seemed like it couldn't get any worse. The veteran was a damaged man who saw too much blood and sadness years ago and now was having to live through it all again. He was a reclusive, awkward middle aged man who tried to keep to himself when he was gathered in the circle around the pillory with people shouting accusations and crying for the death of their fellow man. The veteran didn't understand, but he always kept to himself. He had the capability to speak up for any reason, but he just couldn't bring himself to say anything, as he didn't want to see the guillotine fly down and and end another possibly innocent life, see any more necks get snagged on the rough, tied rope of the noose, and he especially didn't want to see the trial by water. The looks on their faces as they sunk reminded him of a few not so pleasant memories of the war. Whenever he passed over anything that reminded him of his experience on the frontlines, he was wracked with fear, his insides dropping and freezing to ice. Even when he tried not to think about it he constantly shook and, on some of his worse days, saw bodies that weren't there. Things that were so beyond repair that they lost every trait of humanity they once had, slumped into the corners of porches of houses as his walked by them or in the distance, slumped onto a tree. When he looked again, they had dropped out of existence, seemingly never having had existed at all. The killings weren't helping the veteran's fried psyche, and he resorted to stuffing his old war revolver into his pants pocket, hiding it under his coat. It stuck out awkwardly and weighed heavily against his leg, but he couldn't take himself to leave it at home. It was his only resort to protect himself in his own little slice of hell that he was living in and he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

As the gathering around the pillory ended each night and the veteran walked the path down to his house, he felt his gut go cold as he walked down to the confine of his house, all alone, where he had a whole night with nothing but his thoughts and terrors. As he walked up the steps, jammed the keys into his door and turned the knob, he stopped in his tracks, half expecting somebody to grab him from behind and hold a knife to his throat. But as the silence settled and he stared forward into the pitch blackness of his hallway, nothing happened. He dragged his feet into the hallway, bugged eyed, treading carefully into what should have been his zone of comfort. This ritual was pulled out into five hour long tread through his house, up until he had changed into his pajamas and dragged himself into bed, holding the revolver in his hand the whole time. As he stepped into his bedroom, looking over his shoulder the whole time, he finally slipped into his bed. As he draped himself under the thick cotton covers, the paranoia stayed. If anything, his paranoia multiplied as he lay in bed, the revolver still in his grip under the covers. As he stared down the hallway intent on trying to find something that wasn't there, he finally felt some hint of sleep creep over him. As his head tilted back into the pillow the sleep finally hit him, finally giving him some hint of a grand sweet release to all his issues.

The illusion of some kind of safety was shattered in no time at all, as the veteran was jolted out of sleep as he heard something coming from what seemed to be his hallway. Quiet, muffled footsteps that sounded like they must have been coming from some kind of padded dress shoes were moving down his hall. It was barely audible, but the veteran knew what footsteps sounded like. The veteran wiggled his fingers as he stuffed his body deeper into his mattress, hiding underneath his covers like they would stop any kind of harm from coming to him. But as he wiggled and edged his fingers down the bed, the revolver wasn't anywhere to be seen. He wiggled his feet around and, to his horror, felt the wooden handle with his toes. As he lay down in sleep, blissful and happy, the revolver slid down to his feet, far from the reach of his arms. The veteran was afraid to move and attract attention from whatever was down his hallway, and it didn't help that it seemed to be moving closer. Whatever "it" was, it seemed dangerously close. The veteran had difficulty looking down the hallway as he pretended to be asleep, craning his neck by barely a centimeter or two to lift his eyes so they could level enough to see the hallway with some stretching. As he looked down the length of the hallway, he saw some small flash of movement. For one thing, the figure that was slinking down his hallway was human, but that only worsened his fear. He was being stalked by an intelligent person and he didn't know what it wanted with him. It was like he was back on the frontlines again, but this time he wasn't holding a rifle in his hands and wasn't surrounded by a whole squad worth of men to help him, this time he was in his bed, nearly defenseless and alone. Despite his best efforts, the veteran was quaking and breathing heavily through clenched teeth which obviously wasn't helping him with his illusion of sleep. But as the veteran lay, he didn't dare move a muscle, as the figure was getting closer.

Pouring with sweat, quaking and nearly hyperventilating is not a good state to defend yourself in, but the veteran was ready to. Now, the figure was in his doorway and stepping closer to the bed. Within seconds, he had swept to the bed and was right on the bedside. The veteran felt as if he was going to explode with all the panic building up inside of him, but he was ready to react when the figure even seemed like he would try to make a move against him. What made it even worse, though, was how the figure wasn't making any moves, but was just staring at him. As if he was studying him, waiting for him to move. The veteran knew this was the defining moment of his life right here, if he would die from this thing hovering over him or overcome the odds and get out. It was just like being on the frontlines again. Finally, the hovering silhouette moved, drifting it's hand and hovering it over the veteran's head, and that's when the veteran struck. Springing up, using the bed as leverage, getting tangled halfway in the covers as he leaped into the figure, tumbling over with him into a lump on the group. As he looked closer as they tangled together on the ground, he realized that the figure was a man, and a very well dressed one, at that. He had a cigarette barely hanging out of his mouth and a pair of sunglasses that slid awkwardly above his eyes as he launched backwards into the floor. The veteran had half of his body still stuck in the covers, but with one arm free he was still able to make an attempt at grasping for the man's throat, but with two arms free, the man was able to shove the veteran off of him. As the veteran hit the floor again as he slid off of the other man's body, he hit against the floor and untangled himself from the web of his own covers that were still clinging to most of his body. The man hobbled back up and the veteran scanned his eyes across him. The scowl, the suit, the cigarette… He had to be mafia.

The veteran didn't even have a second to react before the mafia member was on him again, pinning him to the ground by putting his weight on the veteran's legs and holding down both of his wrists. They were close enough to feel each other's hot breath. The mafia member was holding him there, panting, trying to catch his breath from the brief but rough struggle. The veteran was stuck completely helpless, waiting to be wiped out by the mafia like some kind of human stain in their ruthless attempt to stop anyway from interfering in their work… but it never came. In fact, he was rather well dressed, and the fight didn't seem to ruin how perfectly fitted his suit was. The mafia member started moving his hands, almost massaging the veteran's wrists. They were both staring into each other's eyes, and it both seemed like they were longing for something. They both wanted some kind of release from the stress of their everyday life and their jobs. They made a silent agreement while staring into each other's eyes. Their breaths were so hot on each other's faces, they had to go for it…

So they put their dicks in each other's butts.

 **The end.**


End file.
